Music
by Felix McKraken
Summary: Music, money, fame, and depression all go hand in hand. How will the Z warriors overcome their worst challenge yet - being in a band?
1. One: Vegeta

_Vegeta_  
  
"Oh. My. God. You look _exactly_ like Vegeta."  
He got this a lot.  
"Yes. So lots of people tell me."  
He verbalized this fact.  
"Oh..erm...you don't have his voice though," the girl pointed out.  
He blinked slowly before replying, "..I know."  
They never knew his talking voice. Idiots. Morons. Bloody, filthy mongrols of infectious puss that weren't even worthy to be eaten by maggots. He felt complete and utter rage. It was a good thing he felt this way all the time, otherwise he wouldn't be able to handle it. "Well then.." the girl faltered, unsure of what to say, but obviously uncomfortable. Quickly, she waved and backed away, "I have to go...Nice meeting you!"  
Liar.  
He didn't wave back.  
He didn't care.  
He continued his stroll along the boulevard, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. For an instant he wondered what a cigarette tasted like. That woman smoked them. He wondered what it felt like to inhale toxic chemicals - letting them coat over your lungs to inhibit your breathing and eventually cause cancer. But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished.  
He didn't care.  
Not about anything.  
He wouldn't tell anyone though.  
  
His hand pushed the door open and he stepped partially inside the shop. "What time is it?" he demanded sharply, his eyes fixed in a glare.  
"It's six fifteen," replied the shopkeeper, about to continue before he noticed the young man was gone.  
Six fifteen.  
Band practice was at seven.  
Band practice.  
Feh.  
Ultimately, he decided he would, once again, either be late or just skip it completely. It was humiliating. He didn't need to practice. He didn't want to practice. He could just go home instead, and grab that woman by her shoulders, throw her onto the bed, ravish her, and them smoke one of those damn cigarettes afterward. Not a bad idea... Practice was a joke. He hated it as much as performing. He hated everything. Even the money he made and enjoyed. Somehow, he hated this the most. But he hated band practice. He hated practicing and he hated practicing with those people.  
Especially Kakkarot.  
Those clumps of bile and waste called him Goku. Goku. Son Goku. Goku Son. Goku. He hated that name more than he hated the man and he hated that man more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life. More than Freiza, more than fate, more than failure. Kakkarot was his failure. Kakkarot was the one who MADE him fail. He did this with a smile and tried to act like friends when they were enemies. He hated this, and somehow he managed to get stuck in a band with him.  
Him, and his son, and his friend. Outcasted. He was a loner, he hated it, but less so than not being alone. He hated many things. He didn't want to try to think of something that he didn't hate because he didn't want to frustrate himself.  
  
  
Orgasming.  
  
The thought shot through his mind before he realized exactly what it was that he had realized.  
An orgasm was something he didn't hate. It was one pure moment when nothing else mattered and your entire entity was filled with beautiful unyielding, utter bliss. One moment when nothing mattered. One moment when you had no mind. One moment when there was nothing to hate.  
Six twenty-three.  
The clock read six twenty-three.  
  
He wanted to go home.  
  
He wanted to go home and forget. He wanted to forget that he selled his soul for money. He wanted to forget he had no soul to sell in the first place. He wanted to forget the sheltered childhood he had lived and how his race had been obliterated down to himself and that lame-brain Kakkarot over the course of a few years. He wanted to forget that he could never go home because his planet had been blown into small, tiny bits of dust. That the race he was so proud of, the race he was supposed to lead someday, was nearly extinct because of one demented fuck who happened to kidnap him, raise him, and kill his father. He wanted to forget that he was never powerful enough to kill that psycho bastard.  
Damn.  
It.  
All.  
He wanted to smoke.  
  
Six twenty-nine.  
Band practice was at seven.  
He sighed. Band practice...sex...band practice...sex...  
He sighed again. Why couldn't he decide? He thought the choice was simple: Band practice..or sex.  
  
..Or band practice. Or smoke. Or kill, or blow something up, or wreak havoc. Or commit suicide - that sounded like fun!  
  
Stop.  
Breathe.  
Go.  
  
Just go to band practice, go and forget. Forget it all...and go.  
  
He went. 


	2. Goku: Two

_Goku_  
  
He looked into the mirror and flashed a grin, exposing his pearly whites. "You can do this! You're number one!" a voice shouted out chipperly, enthusiastically, supportingly.  
This voice was his own.  
This was part of band practice, and yet, it wasn't. Band practice started at seven, and it was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom. It was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom, looking at the mirror, flashing himself smiles, and saying encouraging things. He needed reassurance from himself. Why? Smiles used to come so easy; he used to be so happy; his smiles used to be true. But somehow he got mixed up in a band. Now everywhere he went strangers wanted to talk to him, to be with him, to use him.  
He had to force himself to smile.  
He didn't understand any of it. He didn't understand how being in a band - singing lyrics along with a song - could make him more famous than saving the earth had ever made him. He didn't understand, and he finally decided that he didn't WANT to understand. He was famous now. He sang. He was in a band with his son, Piccolo, and Vegeta. How this had happened he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if anyone knew. It just happened. It just happened and he was forced to put a smile on his lips because of it when he especially wanted to frown, or cry, or be angry, or (Lord forbid) rip some bitch's head off. He pushed it down; he pushed it away; he took deep breaths and smiled. He smiled and he hated to smile because it wasn't real.  
When you fake a smile the world thinks you're okay so they treat you like shit. You smile when you're shit; you smile because you're the richest shit in the world and you're expected to smile. You smile because it's all you can do. Because if you stop smiling, you stop being on top. And if there was anything worse than being on top, it was being on bottom. And once you start the descent you can't stop it and you plunge face first into the jagged rocks of societies expectancies; and if society doesn't kill you, you kill yourself. Few survive either way and, if they do, they are usually left horrendously disfigured and rejected for the rest of their exploited life.  
That's why when you commit suicide you hope you succeed.  
Because the risk of living is too great.  
"You are number FUCKING one!" he screamed at the reflection, his teeth clenched, grinding against one another. "You're number one," he repeated softly, sadly.  
He sighed. It was six fifty-two. Stupid watch. Stupid, ugly, Rolex. Stupid evidence of his fortune - of his fame. He looked back at his reflection and suddenly had pity on every famous actor, musician, politician - WHATEVER - he had pity on every famous person who had died from a drug overdose. They were forced to take those drugs by the people who loved them - their fans. They died for those people who pretended to care. They died for people they never knew. He smiled.  
The lucky bastards actually died.  
He was not as lucky however, for he didn't have the courage to attempt suicide nor take drugs. Sometimes, life was good. Sometimes. Sometimes...Rarely. Life was rarely good.  
Another glance at his watch told him it was six fifty-four. Band practice started in six minutes. Six minutes and he'd walk out this door, put that smile on his face and happily try to keep a fight from breaking out. That was if Vegeta would show up. In all probability, the chances of Vegeta showing up were roughly one in ten. If he showed that made the chances of a fight breaking out nine in ten as opposed to band practice without Vegeta: zero to ten. He had to remind himself the reason why Vegeta was in the band. What was it?  
Oh yeah, he could sing.  
Sing? Who was he kiddin'?  
Vegeta sounded like a fuckin' siryn.  
When they had heard him sing for the first time - when he had heard him sing for the first time - he was instantly put into a blind stupor which floated comfortably on the notes the prince sang.  
It was the voice of a god. Vegeta was some type of musical divinity and he had obviously not known about it. When questioned about taking lessons (for singing) the Saijin calmly replied that "singing was for those weakling women and men who fancy other men's attention". And that type of response was rather toned down for Vegeta. Goku knew this and could practically hear the thoughts clearly in his head. So clear he could envision them: Vegeta with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. His voice is calm and unwavering as he says, "Singing? That's for those sick bitches who get fucked in the ass."  
Of course Vegeta would reject the notion of singing in a band, and reject the idea more so because it involved an audience. None-the-less they somehow bribed him into the band.  
Singing was for sick bitches who get fucked in the ass.  
Vegeta sang. He sang. Piccolo sang. Goten, too, sang.  
Wouldn't the tabloids love that? He could read the headlines: BOY BAND SENSATION COMES OUT OF CLOSET. Then there would be an indepth article explaining about how each member of the band was gay.  
How ridiculous.  
His son hadn't even hit puberty.  
And they could barely keep Vegeta from killing everyone.  
It was six fifty-nine.  
Hell, he'd go to band practice early. 


	3. Three: Piccolo

_Piccolo_  
  
He was floating in the air with his legs crossed indian style, his fingers interlaced, and his head bowed. He could hear Goku shout from all the way inside. He could hear him from the street. The humans couldn't, however, but this was expected. Being a Namek just gave you better hearing. Through the walls he heard pieces of what Goku said - something along the lines of:  
"You.....nu.....FUCKING..ne!"  
He usually didn't yell (or curse), but Piccolo knew sometimes you just had to vent your frustrations. Especially before band practice. That's why he was meditating.  
They had a show in two days. In two days they would file onto a stage in some indoor building. They would go out into a room that would be hotter than the temperature outside. He thanked the gods for letting him be a Namek (once again). They would file into a room full of (mostly) screaming, ravenous, and most likely - horny - teenage girls. They would file in there and perform for these girls and act like they cared.  
And the worst thing was that he didn't even want the money. He didn't want the fame either, but he could only get rid of one. He gave his cut to charity. It wasn't like he needed any money anyway. Hell, he only needed water to survive, and he could make his own clothes. And just for the record, his preferred method of transportation didn't involve riding around inside an odd metal shell, but rather flying himself. He smiled lightly at the memory of Goku and himself attempting to get their driver's licenses. That was quite an adventure they had. Too bad they never had time to do that sort of thing anymore. They were always off doing other shit. Attending award ceremonies, doing commercials, donating money..et cetera, et cetera.  
Okay, so he was the only one who really donated it. But hell, give Piccolo a good reason why he should give money to you and he'd give it to you. This worked if you saw him on the street as well, but considering he was usually on his way to the market for bottled water, you usually only got a few bucks and some change. If, for some reason, he had his checkbook with him, however, you could, with the right technique and words, wipe out his entire bank account. And he wouldn't care; he wouldn't mind. In fact, he'd gladly hand over the check. It wasn't like they'd rob him of house and home because he resided at Kami's Lookout. Well..it was Dende's now. And Dende was worthy of it. The kid reminded him of a Namekian Gohan, kinda. He was surprised that the two hadn't grown that close. It also surprised him how everyone lived out their lives seperatly except in the case of a crisis.  
He wondered when the last time Goku had actually seen Krillin in person. Probably during the whole Buu mess.  
Pathetic.  
But then again, it was understandable. It's easier to like someone when you don't know them, so it was also easier to never feel negative feelings toward them when you haven't seen them in a long time. Except in the case of Vegeta. That man seemed to despise the fact he had to see ANYTHING again. He wondered how Vegeta could stand to look in the mirror. He shook his head. No..he knew how.  
Vegeta didn't care about anyone else.  
  
Vegeta only loved Vegeta.  
  
Damn that Saijin. The main reason he could see for Vegeta singing in the band was just to brag and flaunt to Bulma. To get right in her face and say "Look at me! Look at me making money for singing! Look at me con all those people! Look at me make MORE money than you!".  
Selfish little arrogant prick.  
Sometimes he wanted to kill him.  
But never when he sang. It was as if..he was a completely different man when he sang. Of course the air around him still held the rigid coldness that he didn't care, but beneath the tones that escaped his throat Piccolo could hear a bit of pride in what he was doing, and something else he wasn't sure of. Something that he didn't expect from the prince, and yet, he wasn't sure exactly what it was. But that small something kept him from killing Vegeta.  
Band practice started soon. He wondered if Vegeta would show up. Probably not.  
Casually, he knocked on the door and awaited for Goku to answer. What a dump..how odd of them. Out of all the places they could've chosen for band practice, they chose this dump. Asking why was like asking why they became a band. No one knew the answer so it particularly didn't matter. Even still, he had to wonder because the place was nearly falling apart. It was placed right between an old warehouse and a condemmed apartment building. Whatever this place used to be, he wasn't too sure, but it suited their needs for band practice. An old dump in downtown Satan City. Far away from Goku's home, far away from Capsule Corp, and far away from Kami's Looko.. - _Dende's_ Lookout. Out in the middle of nowhere.  
Okay. Understandable.  
Goku opened the door. 


	4. Goten: Four

_Goten_  
  
He felt the wind in his hair as he sat on Nimbus, letting the cloud carry him through the sky with percision and accuracy. He could sense his brother behind him, but he didn't mind, he knew his mom had just sent him after to make sure he'd make it to band practice okay. His big brother was quite busy so he was glad that he spared his time to look out for him. He really loved Gohan. He idled his big brother. He wondered why Gohan didn't want to be in the band. It was okay though. If there was one person he really wished to be in the band it would be:  
Trunks Vegeta Briefs.  
Trunks went to private school and, if/when he was allowed out of the house, they tried to play the training game. But Goten had a feeling that with every smile Trunks gave him, there were at least two frowns behind it. He was able to sense other people's feelings on occasion, but he didn't tell anyone this. It never happened around girls though, or anyone he didn't know. Usually it was his father, Gohan, Trunks, and sometimes even Vegeta.  
  
Vegeta scared him.  
  
But even though, he felt an odd sort of sad feeling lingering around Vegeta like a layer of skin. His anger radiated like an aura and Goten never knew what exactly he was so angry about. It didn't really matter though. He didn't talk to him unless he had to and, when he did, he showed respect. Vegeta was so unlike anyone he had ever known. The closest in comparison was Piccolo because the Namek was a quiet person. But he knew Piccolo wasn't angry because when he was you _knew_ it.  
He got angry at Vegeta a lot. Over reasons he didn't understand. He knew some of it had to do with Trunks' mother, and sometimes it was about Trunks.  
Other times it was just about things in general.  
He hated it when fights broke out at band practice because it made him feel like he wasn't important. It made him feel lonely and sad and frustrated. And with that he became angry because he didn't understand why they had to fight all the time. Bands were supposed to have fun and be happy, right?  
Right?  
  
He saw Satan city on the horizon and he hoped a fight wouldn't break out tonight or he felt as if he'd burst or hold his breath until he was blue in the face. He hoped his father would stop them like he usually did. He smiled. He looked up to his father as well. And Piccolo too, in a weird sense. But Vegeta...  
Why couldn't Vegeta just be happy?  
He wished he could do something to make that man smile but he knew that this wasn't any ordinary person he was dealing with. It was the Prince of Saijins and so he had to be extra careful with the ways he would plan this.  
It would take awhile.  
And lots of planning.  
But if he made Vegeta smile...  
It'd be worth it.  
It'd be worth the time and the effort..  
If he could make Vegeta smile.  
  
Nimbus flew him into Satan City and to the place between an old warehouse and a condemmed apartment building. He hopped off the cloud and turned around looking for his brother. He spotted him on the roof of a nearby building. "I'll see you later Gohan!!" he shouted, waving. His brother smiled, nodded, and waved before flying off. He watched his brother go and then turned toward the entrance of the building.  
It was time for band practice. 


	5. Five: Practice

_Practice_  
  
I open the door and allow Piccolo to come in. I wonder how long he's been there. It's hard to tell..it could be a few minutes up to a couple hours. You can never tell with Piccolo, he's so patient.  
We go inside and begin setting up everything..the instruments, the speakers, the mics. Same ol', same ol'... We do this in silence as if it was ritual. Shift this, plug in that, tune this, arrange that..I imagine doing this in two days from now, when I'll have to go on stage and smile. Sing and smile and perform.  
And smile.  
I feel sick.  
Piccolo raises an eyeridge at me.  
I wave my hand at him as if to say, "Don't worry, I'll be fine. It's just one of those things, you know..it'll pass." He nods and continues setting up while I take a seat so my stomach will settle. After a few moments, I hear the door open and close and another few seconds reveal that my son has arrived.  
"Hey Goten," I say with a faint, _real_ smile. He beams to see me without the flashes of light, without a crowd, with no interruptions.  
"Papa!" he says, leaping into my arms, hugging me tightly. After a moment he turns and says, "Hello Mr. Piccolo!"  
I nearly chuckle at this because some how or another he's picked up Gohan's old name for the Namek. Piccolo nods, a smirk on his lips, "Hey, kid." I sigh silently. Band practice has yet to start.  
I wish it was over already.  
"Which song should we start with?" Piccolo asks me. I'm the leader figure of the band even though I'm not the leader. I guess I always hold that leader-figure position.  
He shifts through a portfolio that's full of music sheets and pauses, waiting for my answer. "Surprise me," I say with that real smile faintly lingering. He nods and removes some sheets, setting them up.  
"Gohan followed me here!" Goten says with a wide smile.  
"Oh? It's good to see he's looking out for his little brother," I reply, ruffling his hair, and he complains, yet beams.  
"We're ready to start," says Piccolo, and I stand.  
  
  
I know this is going to be tough today. Goku isn't feeling well and I could list ten thousand reasons why. Well, more like ten thousand screaming, swooning, reasons that he'll have to face in two days why. It's not just the performance coming up..it's everything in his daily life. From his wife to the record company to Vegeta to the strangers... At least I can run away to Dende's and be alone. He's terrorized everywhere he goes.  
Too bad you go to Hell for killing.  
It sucks not being able to save your friend, much less, yourself.  
We're taking our places and I adjust my mic accordingly. I look over my shoulder to see Goten climbing up onto his chair, pulling out his drum sticks. Goku lifts his guitar and puts the strap on; he finds a pick and holds it by his teeth as he quickly finishes tuning at the last minute. Goten warms up, loosely spitting out some beats while flexing his wrists. I debate on whether to play bass or keyboard. I suppose it doesn't matter, it's only practice...but somehow or another I can't decide. I better make up my mind quick or I'll be making the others wait.  
Bass or keyboard?  
Hmm...  
Bass.  
I pick up the guitar and get ready. Goten shouts, "One, two! One, two, three, four!" We start playing, just warming up, not even singing. The song sounds a little strange without a keyboard, but we can hear it in our minds because we've played the song so much. We play and play, not singing, no emotion, just sounding like we care even though we don't. We're in the middle of "Will You Marry Me?" (a song we DID NOT write because we never write our own songs) when suddenly an angel starts to sing the lyrics. We stop but the voice continues, coming closer until that prince shows his spiky little head.  
Damn he can sing.  
He walks up to us and abruptly stops.  
He looks calm in an odd sort of way and he says:  
"Hey."  
I remove the guitar and silently hand it to him and I know we're all asking ourselves the same thing: Why is Vegeta here? I'm sure he's even asking himself that question... He takes the instrument, and adjusts the shoulder strap so it fits him. He digs through his pocket and removes a pick.  
And there's silence.  
"Play the new song," he says, "Charmed."  
Goten taps his drum sticks together and I get on the keyboard. Goku's mood seems to be indifferent and he concentrates on playing rather than anything else. Vegeta starts singing and everything's going good for once that I'm rather surprised.  
Just keep singing, Vegeta. Don't fuck up, Vegeta. Don't get angry, Vegeta. Just keep singing, just keeping going, Vegeta...  
He's singing and singing.  
And then..he's singing the wrong lyrics.  
We falter slightly, but quickly recover as he goes on and on. His voice is more harsh, more like his speaking voice but with the edge of smoothness that comes when he sings. I'm impressed, for it seems he's making all this up on the spot. Pure talent. And Vegeta had to be the one to get it.  
"You can't say, you know me, just cuz, you wanna blow me. I'm not, the type, to go down, without a fight. You think just, cuz you see me, you're special, no - you're easy. I don't know you, I wish you harm, we just met, I'm so _charmed_.  
"No - I don't care, what you have to say, or what happened, during your day. Or who your, friends are, or if you, drive an expensive car. We just met, impressions first, I know that, I'm the worst, but I can only wish you harm, we just met, I'm so damned _charmed_."  
It sounds like a punk song, or something. Vegeta punk.  
It's pretty damn good.  
Go ahead, keep singing Vegeta..  
"I can't achieve, one damn thing, I'm cursed, and sorry. I can't decide, to argue, if the efforts, worth it to you. I don't need, attention, I don't need, suspense, I don't need, this bullshit, that I'm forced, to live with; with ones, that I hate, I'm angry, and irrate. I just, want to do harm. Life has me so fucking _charmed_."  
He stops and stares before looking down for a moment and I can sense the uneasiness around him. He breathes silently, his muscles tensed.  
It's obvious: he's embarrassed.  
He throws the mic onto the ground and nearly rips the guitar from his body.  
He's _really_ embarrassed. But I don't blame him, he just shared somethings he usually keeps to himself.  
And then he does the switch-over. All his emotions and feelings turn to anger and he screams, "Fuck!" He throws the guitar down, smashing it apart. I growl lowly at the unnecessity of the act.  
  
  
They're at it again. Again, they're going to fight. Why do they have to fight? I don't understand it... Vegeta came into band practice singing. He _never_ comes into band practice singing, or saying anything at all, but he did today. He seemed so calm I didn't think it'd turn to this. Then he started singing words that didn't belong to the song.  
I got scared.  
I was feeling his emotions.  
I continued playing, I kept hitting the drums. I felt his emotions washing over me. There was so much sadness, so much hate, so much despair. I swallowed hard, trying to keep him out of my mind. Then, nothing: he stopped singing, so the music stopped playing. Then anger, anger, anger...and they're fighting again. I close my eyes wishing I could block it out, but it's hopeless. They're yelling and cursing and there's no hope of escape and no way to stop it.  
Piccolo screams, "Why did you have to break the guitar!?"  
Vegeta replies, "Fuck the guitar and fuck you!" And they go at it...  
"Fuck yourself, you arrogant prick!"  
"You first, you bastard whore!"  
"Shut your face, you self-centered bitch!"  
"Make me, you asshole!"  
Silence. "How the Hell..." Piccolo starts, "..are you able to treat Bulma like this and have her stay with you?"  
Vegeta glares, his hands curling to form fists and he says in a whisper, "...Fuck you."  
Piccolo blinks, unphased. There's a pause. Then Piccolo says, "You are such a bitch, Vegeta." He stares at Piccolo for a moment before turning silently, heading for the door.  
"Where are you going?" my dad asks softly.  
"The Hell?! I'll come back alright!? Just lay the fuck off my ass, okay!?" Vegeta snaps at him. Dad just looks down. Vegeta snorts and slams the door, and then, everything is silent and still.  
  
  
I stride towards the nearest convience store. Step, step, step...I like rhythm. I need rhythm now. I need music. I need it because it's all around, it's the only thing that's steady. It's in my blood. I need music. I need _real_ music, not that shit I'm forced to sing.  
Step, step, step...pain, pain, pain.  
I can't let them know.  
I can't let them see.  
I can't...  
Piccolo's words had hurt me.  
  
I bite my tongue, angered at my weakness. Fuck weakness. Step, step, step...anger, anger, anger.  
  
They'd never understand.  
They'd never see.  
They'd never...  
  
I push open the door and it slams against the wall. Ignoring it, I cut in line and slam a fifty on the counter. "Cigarettes," I say, barely containing everything inside of me, "Any type. Any brand. Any size. _Now_."  
Confused, the clerk hurries with my request, but not quick enough because the people in line start bitching. I get my pack and my change. I turn, irritated beyond the point of calming down or backing down. Dare not challenge me now, or you will surely die. "Look..." I hiss, putting my cigarettes away. And then I roar, flexing my power over these pathetic creatures, my ki aura glowing a golden hue. "You can wait one goddamned minute.." I explain, nearly going Super Saijin, "..or you can just FUCK YOURSELVES!" As I scream the people seem a bit shocked and I remove the contents of my pockets...a couple hundred dollars or so, and toss it in the air so that they'll let me be.  
I storm out of there before they can truly react and I race back to that shitty little alley. I rip off the plastic wrapping and open the small container, excitement pitted in my stomach. I pull out a cigarette and place it to my lips...  
And then I remember:  
I have no lighter.  
  
Fuck.  
It.  
All.  
I will smoke!  
I hold my finger tip to the end of the cigarette, and with a brief flicker of ki, I am able to light it. Ah...finally...  
I inhale.  
And then I cough.  
I pause.  
Then I inhale again.  
And this time I do not cough.  
Inhaling deeply, I smoke the thing for all it's worth and in a matter of seconds it's gone to nothing but ashes. I grab another and puff it just as quickly. I take one after the other, just smoking, smoking, smoking...until there's only two left in the box. And then I realize something.  
I feel better.  
I've calmed down considerably and so, hesitantly, I toss the remains of my last cigarette (for now) down onto the ground to join the others there. I slowly, lazilly, head back into band practice and I examine them from a distance. Piccolo is off in the corner, meditating. Kakkarot is lounged across the couch, playing a song I've never heard before, it's slow and sad and unlike anything we've played before. Goten is lying on the floor with his eyes closed, obviously relaxing, or sleeping, as his father plays his song. They don't notice me. Good. I take a few breaths before silently padding into the room. Kakkarot doesn't notice me until I sit on the couch next to him. He stops playing and I shake my head and make a gesture for him to continue, and so he does. I lean back, letting my head rest on the back of the couch. I crave another cigarette already, and so I remove one, lighting up, letting this one linger. I take a puff and then hold the cig in my hand between my index and middle fingers. "What song is that?" I ask in a surprisingly quiet voice.  
He glances at me, not seeing the cigarette or he would surely have commented. "I..made it up," he says with honesty, "To..." He swallows, unsure, and I know he's nervous for some reason but I'm not sure exactly why. He plays a little more before continuing, "I..I made it up to go along with the lyrics you sang..today..." He stares at his guitar before looking up at me. I turn my head towards him and take another puff of my cigarette. His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me with it.  
I exhale, smoke filling the air, "Is practice over?"  
He stares, not saying a word. Then he nods slowly, "Yeah." I nod and get up and leave without looking back.  
...I wonder if I'll go home tonight. 


	6. Night: Six

_Night_  
  
He walked alone like he always did, but in a sense he did have a companion. His hand occasionally came up, pressing the filter to his lips and he inhaled deeply, letting the toxins cover his lungs. It was only a couple hours since his first puff and already cigarettes were his best friend.  
His only friend.  
He gazed into a shop window to check the time. He turned away after reading that it was past one in the morning. His stomach rumbled reminding him that he needed food. With a sigh, he drug himself around town until he found a restaurant that was open. Wow, it was his first bit of luck in a exceedingly long period of time.  
He thought about actually paying the check. The pain and anger within him sweltered, infesting him like a sickly virus. He didn't want this - _any_ of this. ANY OF IT. Except his cigarette. He leaned back taking a slow drag, relishing in his own self-destruction. The chemicals calmed him, or did their best to try, and so he was actually nice to his waiter for once. "Here," she said, handing him a cup of coffee, "It's on me. You look like you need it...Mr. Vegeta." She whispered his name to keep it a secret from the few people who were occupying the cafe. It was the first decent amount of respect he'd seen since...he couldn't remember. He smirked and inhaled.  
After polishing off six plates of food his waiter (waitress, the title never made a difference to him) took a seat across from him. "I'm on break," she explained, "and you're the nicest guy who's been in here today." He found this quite pathetic for some reason. He inhaled, looking out the window. "Anything on your mind?" she asked softly, nervously.  
"Not really," he spoke a half truth. She nodded, sipping her own cup of coffee. Vegeta finished his and tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling.  
"I'll get your check...?" she said slowly, allowing him plenty of time to protest, but he didn't. He sat, staring up.  
He missed that woman.  
He frowned.  
He inhaled.  
He sat.  
On the check that Vegeta received, he noted the blue pen scrawling of "Thanks! I hope you return. It was nice to see such an intelligent man in here. Get well!", and he left a more than adequate tip. He also wrote back: "You don't shame the human race. -Vegeta" That little scrap of paper he wrote on; that flimsy little piece called a receipt; that one little sentence he wrote would be enough for her to buy a new car, a new house, a new life. The reason being? Vegeta didn't do autographs. That was part of his own personal contract.  
As he walked outside, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His gaze lowered to the ground and he savored the taste of smoke in his mouth. He knew at once that woman would ask him about it and he clenched his fists.  
It was his life.  
It was his life!  
It was his life...  
In roughly a day he'd have to go on stage and perform. Have thousands of screaming voices ring through his Saijin ears so that he wouldn't be able to hear properly for at least a few hours afterward. Perhaps if they were performing to no one on stage, like at rehersal, he wouldn't mind as much. As much...  
He growled low in his throat. No, it would bother him. This would bother him until the day he died. The music industry took something he never payed attention to before, forced it upon him, and destroyed any remote chance on him liking the subject.  
He's never admit it, but he did listen to music - some music. And yes, he'd never admit that he'd like it.  
Warriors do not appreciate fine arts. Warriors are there to fight. He lived for the battle, not so that he could stand up in front of people and sing.  
Though he would never admit, there was some finer things to music. It was mathematical, so technically it was intelligent. However, this pop shit he was forced to sing degraded almost every opinion down to, well..shit status. There were a few types of music, or songs, he did enjoy, some even moved him in a "spiritual" way. But never, ever, would he admit it.  
Brahms, Dvorak, Drieg, Handel, Haydn, Liszt, Shubert, Shumann, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky...maybe.  
Beethoven..Bach..Mozart..Chopin..Vilvadi...definitely.  
In his free time he'd secretly sing a song that catched his fancy, or more embarrassingly, practice. In his true "free time", however, he trained like he always did. It was there, in the gravity room, where he finally had time to think and be himself. Hesitantly, on an occasion or two, he'd lock the door, block off any incoming "calls", and turn up the speakers that Dr. Briefs had installed after his start in the music business. There was his sanctuary. Carpe diem. There he'd be able to relax. Perhaps he'd do that now...  
With ease, he lifted himself into the air, inhaling the rest of his cigarette before picking up speed. It took only a few minutes to get to Capsule Corp, and even fewer for him to step inside his training grounds.  
He locked the door and discarded his extra clothes - stripping down to his boxer shorts. He lit another cigarette and disabled incoming and outgoing calls before turning on the gravity. He then fiddled around some more with the console, breaking a small smile as the speakers came to life.  
Chopin...  
He leapt into the air, twisting and turning, fighting an imaginary foe. Kick, to punch, to kick, to punch. Everything around him had a beat, a rhythm...and oh, by god, how he needed that right now. He just wanted something steady and consistent rather than being thrown all across the stupid mud ball all the time.  
Ah...Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise in E-Flat Major, Op. 22....  
He stopped to finish the rest of his cigarette, and there after decided to stop altogether and take a small break. The heavens knew he rarely got one in these recent times..but the exercise was much needed, and he felt better now after doing a fraction of his "normal" amount.  
Eventually he stopped the music and put everything back to the way it was. Collecting his clothes, he went straight to the master bedroom. Bulma was up, reading. "I was just curious," she said, "as to when you were getting home. I don't have to worry, you know, with you being a Super Saijin and all." She worried. He said nothing. "Usually it's customary to take off your clothes inside a private place like the bedroom or bathroom," the blue-haired woman said, but not in any type of snotty way. It was a simple remark.  
He nodded, eyebrows furrowing into normal scowl stance, "I know. I was training." He dropped the clothes into a pile beside the bed and slipped under the covers. She turned out the light, not uttering another word.  
He closed his eyes, sighing silently.  
It was going to be a long night. 


End file.
